


rend thy chains, the blossom time of souls

by SerpaSas



Series: your cities are a wilderland (look upon your children) [2]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Apocalypse Holidays, Easter, Families of Choice, I told you I wasn't done with this universe yet, Spring Equinox, and yes I realize Easter doesn't fall on the actual spring solstice but do these kids? No, so here have some of my confusion over the whole Easter thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-10-19 07:34:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10635228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SerpaSas/pseuds/SerpaSas
Summary: “Rabbits don’t evenlay eggs.” Monroe mutters.Lexa makes a face from her spot next to Clarke, says, “Spirits save us from Skaikru holidays,” which is about the time everyone collectively decides they definitively have to celebrate it.Or, the deliquents celebrate Easter





	

**Author's Note:**

> It's back! And actually on time, miracle of miracles. Happy Easter, y'all. If you celebrate, I hope it's a good one. If you don't, I hope you get some good chocolates on sale on Tuesday
> 
> As a reminder, _sosik_ is the Trigedasleng word for _solstice_

“If the Long Night was a holiday before the war, were the other three sosik’s?” Echo asks one day, out of the blue.

Or perhaps not out of the blue; the seasons are turning, the snow melted, the nights getting shorter. You don’t know when the spring sosik is, but it’s probably coming up fast; you remember Echo explaining the spring sosik is when the day and night are equal, and it seems like they’re getting close to that.

It makes sense to you that there’d be a celebration for spring, too- the dark and cold of winter disappearing, the new life emerging.

...which rings a bell, actually. You speak up, remembering more as you speak. “In spring, there was a holiday, it was called Easter. We learned about it less than Christmas, but it was supposed to mark the death and resurrection of the son of one of the really popular gods, before the War. And there was something involving eggs, I think."

“Eggs.” Echo repeats, doubtful and amused. “Was this son of a god a bird?”

For whatever reason, religion hasn’t really seemed to survive on the ground in any noticeable way. Not in the same way it didn’t survive on the Ark, either- up there, the population had started out almost exclusively people of science, people who, for a large part, seemed to think that since they gave their lives to facts, they couldn't also give their lives to faith. But there were those of them who _were_ religious, of many different faiths; Christian, Jewish, Muslim, Hindu, Buddhist, Sikh, Shinto, Tao. But after the war, after the joining of the stations into one, all the faiths seemed to have… blurred. Until all the differences between them seemed inconsequential, that they shrunk and disappeared, because they all wanted one thing above all else: to return to the ground.

Growing up, you had felt more connected to the gods your mother read to you about- the old gods, the pagan gods, the ones who wore human faces and walked secretly among the people who worshipped them. Hestia and Xiuhtecuhtli and Odin were more real to you than the God Mrs. Kane talked about in abstract while she pruned the tree. You learned more about Jesus and angels and heaven and hell from your own mythology reading than your regularly-attending peers did in church.

But Grounders seemed to not even have kept that- too focused on survival, probably. You can’t blame them.

It makes explaining Jesus sort of hard, though- and explaining the rest of it is impossible.

“They believed a giant rabbit broke into their homes in order to leave them chicken eggs? To celebrate some holy man being brought back from the dead? How does that make sense?” Echo asks, bewildered. By this point, they’ve gathered quite a group. It’s not just the Grounders who look confused, either: anyone who hadn’t already heard of Easter looks baffled.

Clarke snorts, points out, “We’re talking about the people who nuked the earth. Making sense wasn’t their thing.”

“Rabbits don’t even _lay eggs_.” Monroe mutters.

Lexa makes a face from her spot next to Clarke, says, “Spirits save us from Skaikru holidays,” which is about the time everyone collectively decides they definitively have to celebrate it.

First, they need chicken eggs.

The coop at Camp Sekansi is somewhat depleted, as it is the end of winter, but if they boil the eggs before painting them they can eat them normally after they’re all found. The dye itself is the problem.

Lincoln is the solution.

With Octavia’s help, he gathers different plants, moss and berries and flowers that are just beginning to bloom.

“It’s the same idea as making paint,” he explains. “And the exact same as making dye for clothing, though I was never involved in that job.” He smiles. “Art, though. That I can do.”

And they’re off. Never let it be said the Sekansi don’t throw themselves into everything wholeheartedly- especially if it leads to a party.

Mischa’s daughter, Kamila, and the Grounder boy Manda has taken in, Jonai, the oldest of the children they seem to be inadvertently collecting (against nearly everyone’s better judgment, but what can they do? Leave them to die? Octavia’s very existence was enough to sentence her to death, once. You can’t let another child grow up that way, hiding away from everyone) are delighted by the idea of dying eggs, and manage to dye themselves in the process. Kamila especially seems to find her hands and forearms being a strange mix of colour hilarious, while Jonai is a little more hesitant, a year older and skin darker, the dye less evident.

Kath, who has fallen into the roll of chicken tender, is watching it all with narrowed eyes, waiting for someone to break the carefully counted eggs.

Meanwhile, the Grounders explain how their people celebrate the spring sosik. 

“Bonfires,” Lincoln says. “In TonDC, we’d have a large bonfire every year, with music, dancing, and drinking.”  
“So much drinking,” Lexa confirms. It’s surprising to hear- the Commander doesn’t drink much, that you’ve noticed. Practically, she’s quite small: you can’t imagine it would take much to get her drunk, although you’re sure you thought the same thing about Raven before she drank you under the table the first time. Actually, thinking about it, you think Lexa might not drink around the Sekansi because she doesn’t feel totally safe- it’s been months since she stopped bringing a guard with her to your camp, and Clarke’s trust has gone a long way with your people, but for those at the Mountain, inside and out, it’s hard to forget she led her army away amd left them to die.

You imagine Commander Lexa in Polis, during peacetime, surrounded by people she’s known for years, people who would sacrifice their lives for hers; you could see her drinking, there. It’s not like Grounders don’t partake- they really, really do- but only when they feel safe enough to let their guard down.

“It’s the same for the Azgeda,” Echo confirms of her people's spring sosik Grounder traditions, and you remember that she was there, too, that night in Mount Weather. That she had been in charge of the recently uncaged Grounders, had led her people away and left your people to fight their own way out. You remind yourself of that, when you question Lexa’s place here. Remind yourself that Clarke loves Lexa as much as you love Echo. It helps. You decide then and there to make an effort to help Lexa feel like your camp is somewhere she could let her guard down.

“So,” Clarke rounds up. “Bonfires, music, dancing, and a lot of moonshine.” Her voice is dryly amused. “Anything else?”

The next morning, before the sun is even up, you and Clarke dart around camp, hiding the multicoloured eggs.

“How did we fall into the roll of mom and dad?” she asks, voice quiet to avoid waking anyone. “Raven’s older than me. You’re at least old.”

“I am not old,” you argue, although you suspect that, in fact, you are. None of your people were big on birthdays, had spent too long in a place where a birthday meant getting closer to death, so actual age was not the most vital thing, but everyone was aware you had a couple years on all of them. You were the only one who hadn’t first stepped foot on the ground as a teenager. “Besides, you became mom when you started kissing their scrapes better and putting them in time-out," you add.

“Well, then _you_ became dad when you started bossing them around and giving them chores,” Clarke snickers, hiding the last of the eggs. “Parents to half a hundred delinquents.”

“Good thing we love them, right?”

The actual egg-hunt is ridiculously fun to watch, all your people running around, helping the actual kids find most of them, and the breakfast of eggs and honey bread is delicious.

Easter still doesn’t make any sense, though.


End file.
